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“Oui. And for Gabi, although you should not tell her that. She does not believe she needs any help.” He shuffled around some papers on the table, seeming to not wish to continue the discussion.
But he did not appear to mind her presence, so Julia continued around the room, considering each of the paintings. The more she saw, the more convinced she was that his artwork did not deserve to be hidden away in a shed in the country. He had as much, if not more skill than any impressionist artist she’d seen. And she had seen quite a few. For all of his potential to be wasted ... Julia could not allow that to happen.
She returned to study the painting of the woman, feeling the same pull in her heart as before. “Luc, these paintings—thispainting. It should be seen, not hidden away. Your name should be known and your work shown in a museum or a gallery’s collection. You are a master.”
Luc frowned, tossing his papers onto the table. “I am an olive farmer with a hobby.”
“You could be more. I’m not simply giving polite praise. I know art. I’ve been exposed to it my entire life with my father. This...” She lifted her hand toward the painting of the woman. “It belongs in the l’Exposition Universelle.”
“Non,” Luc said.
“My father would—”
“Non, Juliette.”
His voice was not angry, but he spoke firmly, leaving no room for argument. She turned back to the painting. Luc was wrong. This was not merely a hobby. A hobby created pleasant paintings of flowers and baskets of fruit. But this painting felt alive. This kind of work took something more than simply the ability to paint a recognizable image with pretty colors. The ability to reach deep inside one’s heart and create something that spoke to another’s soul... that was rare. A gift that came to few and was developed over years of study and practice. Luc was more than he was willing to admit. Was he afraid? Had his work been rejected before? She didn’t think now was the time to ask. She’d upset him enough for one day.
Hearing scratching sounds behind her, she glanced back.
Luc had put on the apron, and he was mixing paint on a board. He dabbed in his brush and, tipping his head to the side, touched the paint to his canvas. That strange wiggling feeling moved through Julia’s middle again as she watched him, and she felt the blush return to her cheeks.
“Who is she?” she asked.
Luc didn’t glance up to see who she meant. “Ma mère.”
“She’s beautiful.” Julia turned back to the painting again, feeling as if she could happily look at it for hours. The feelings it drew from her were such a mixture of love and sadness that she couldn’t help but want to know more. “How did she die?”
“Fever,” he said. “And mon père five days later.”
“While you were away at art school.” She glanced back at him.
He nodded, his eyes not leaving the canvas.
“I’m sorry.” She looked back at the painting and allowed her emotions to get pulled to the surface again. “Ma mère died in a carriage accident when I was three years old.” The longing and sadness and love she felt when looking at Luc’s painting filled her heart at the thought of her own mother. Julia hardly remembered her, just bits of memories, images that slipped away when she tried to see them clearly.
“I am sorry, Juliette.”
She startled at the sound of his voice so close.
Luc stood beside her. He held out a handkerchief.
Julia took it, realizing there were tears on her cheeks. She had not cried for her mother in years.
“Oh, excuse-moi.” She dabbed the handkerchief on her cheeks. “The painting...”
Luc glanced at it.
“It has a rather strong effect on me,” she explained.
“Mothers... they areextraordinaire, non?” Luc said.
“Oui.” Julia nodded. “But it is the artist who can stir up such emotions—heisextraordinaire.” She handed back the handkerchief, feeling foolish for the personal nature of her compliment and for the display of emotion. She started for the exit. “I will see you at dinner, Luc.”
Closing the door behind her, Julia let out a sigh. The last thing she’d intended when she’d taken a crate to the storage shed was to break down in tears. But, on the other hand, she hadn’t intended to stumble upon Luc Paquet’s secret art studio, either. The encounter left her with quite a lot to consider.
Why did Luc keep his art hidden? Was he simply a private person, or was it a matter of self-doubt? She was certain his works would be praised in the art community. The sale of any of his paintings would be enough to finish the repairs on his house. He could purchase back the grape vineyard and expand the farm. Or hire someone else to do the farm chores and have his days free to focus on his art.
She sighed, picking a sprig of lavender. Remembering the scorpion, she picked a handful and sniffed it as she walked. If Luc would only trust himself—and trust Julia. She may not know how much water to give an olive seedling, but in this, she was right.
